


A Song of Drabbles and One-Shots

by padgepadge



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Drabble Collection, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 19:38:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1911264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/padgepadge/pseuds/padgepadge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of various drabbles and one-shots. I'm a little all over the map with this, so chapters could be set pre-series, during the canon or post-series. Both GOT canon and ASOIAF canon will be utilized. Tagged characters are among my favorites, and people you can expect to see. Tagged couples will be added as we go.</p><p>Most recent: "Wishing" (Ashara only danced with him because Brandon asked her to. And even though Ned is gentle to her, she yearns for the betrothed older brother she can’t have.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Little Lordling

**Title:** Little Lordling  
 **Rating:**  K  
 **Characters:** Jon Snow, Robb Stark  
 **Ships:** none  
 **Summary:** He may not be a Stark, but Jon knows he looks more like Eddard's son than his brothers. He imagines how it would feel to be Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell.  
 **Notes:** Jon Snow is far and away my favorite character in the series. I almost did a series of drabbles entirely built around him, but decided to compile everything together. Expect to encounter him a lot, at a variety of ages and places.  
 **Word Count:** 762

* * *

He has a big mirror in his room, one of the few comforts he shared with his siblings at the request of their lady mother. She demanded that he stay in a separate part of the castle from the trueborn Starks, though the spire that housed his room was not so far away that it deterred Arya or Robb or Bran from sneaking to his room when the children were supposed to be asleep.

Jon has sword-fighting lessons along with his brother later in the afternoon, but he was left to his own devices for the morning. After chasing Arya through the kitchens and stealing a few rolls to annoy Lady Stark, he retreated to his room and is now staring at his reflection.

He always thought he saw his father is his own image more than he saw it in Robb, but it was Robb who would someday be Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell. Jon would have to start calling him Lord Stark and following all of his commands and probably even doing something really embarrassing like pouring his cups of wine or retrieving his arrows while on the hunt.

But Jon knows he looks more like Eddard than any of them. And he often wonders how it would feel to be in the line of succession, perhaps still after Robb, but with a chance for something. He could marry the pretty daughter of some northern lord, a Karstark, maybe, or into the Manderlys of White Harbor, and he could settle into his own holdfast like he belonged.

But he won’t. No matter how much he looks a Stark, he isn’t one. In the mirror, though, he can imagine the wolf sigil clasping his cloak around his shoulders and the little metal circlet he sometimes saw his father wear for formal occasions resting atop his black curls. His bedroom disappears, and he is sitting at the dias, with lords and ladies falling over themselves to make demands of him.

“My lord, there has been an outbreak of the pox in Winter Town,” Maester Luwin says. “If we do not do something to stymie it, it could spread to Winterfell. And it is looking to be a long winter, ser.”

Jon shifts in his chair -- he thinks it feels decidedly throne-like without being quite so ugly as its more famous King’s Landing cousin -- before answering. “Maester, do we have the medicine stores to send?” His voice, strong and sure as his father’s, booms across the great hall.

“If I may, Lord Stark,” a man, likely a Winter Town resident himself, says, coming forward. “M’lord, it’s just a few people. Just came to the shanties. We could always just make it disappear...”

Jon holds up a hand, silencing him. “Maester, the stores?” he asks again, ignoring the other suggestion. The Lord of Winterfell does not slaughter innocents.

“There is likely enough to help, if the outbreak is truly contained to a few huts,” Maester Luwin replies.

Jon slams his clenched fist onto the arm of the chair. “So then, let it be done…”

“Jon?”

“...and if we cannot stop the spread…”

“Jon?”

“...we may be forced to…”

“Seven hells, Jon.”

“...forced to take more drastic…”

“JON!” The fourth attempt to get his attention snaps him out of his reverie. He’s staring at himself in the mirror again. Jon turns, and sees Robb grinning at him. “I was starting to think you were hard of hearing.”

Jon sighs. “How long have you been there?”

“Long enough to hear you talking to yourself, _my lord_ ,” he says with a laugh, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners just like his mother’s do.

Jon frowns. “Is it time for sparring already?” he whines. The sun didn’t seem quite high enough in the sky for their afternoon lessons.

Robb shakes his head, still smiling. “Nope, but I brought you something from the kitchens because Mother sent you to your room.” Jon hadn’t noticed that his brother’s hands are behind his back. Robb extends a sizeable hunk of cheese and a few lemon cakes. Jon snatches them up willingly, as if they’ll vanish.

He munches on one of the lemon cakes and casts another wistful glance in the mirror. The older Jon Stark he saw there, with the wolf pin and the circlet and the big, wooden chair, winks back at him. _Maybe someday_ , is the message.

The image vanishes, but the little, tiny sliver of hope remains. He bites into another lemon cake, smiling like a fool. When Robb asks, he refuses to tell him why.


	2. Wishing

**Title:** Wishing  
 **Rating:** M  
 **Characters:** Ashara Dayne, Eddard Stark, Brandon Stark  
 **Ships:** Ashara/Ned, Ashara/Brandon  
 **Summary:** Ashara only danced with him because Brandon asked her to. And even though Ned is gentle to her, she yearns for the betrothed older brother she can’t have.  
 **Notes:** There are suggestions that Ashara slept with either (or both) of the elder Stark brothers during the Tournament at Harrenhal, so this is my experiment with one possible outcome. Ashara is one my favorite minor characters, because I’m so interested in the mysteries of her, so expect to see a lot of her in this series.  
 **Word Count:** 1155

* * *

I lead him into the empty tent because I know Ned won’t take the lead with me. Turning him down would have been so much easier if he’d asked me himself. I could have looked into those cool, grey eyes and been firm, but kind, in my rejection.

But not to Brandon. His eyes, almost black but still filled with wolf-fire, ignite my blood and I accepted his offer before I even realized it.

“Ash,” he said, his hand sliding over my shoulder. I could feel the callouses on his fingers, sword-made, as he skimmed over my skin. He was close, too close, and the familiarity he was showing in public was improper. But my heart raced in anticipation of him pulling me even closer, betrothed be damned, and kissing me hard and full like I've imagined he would. But instead, he kept talking. I finally caught, “Ned’s shy, you see, and I told him I’d ask…”

“What?” I stammered, searching for what I hope to be desire in those black pits of heat. But it was not there. “Wait, Ned? What about him?”

“He wants to dance with you. Weren't you listening?”

I dropped my eyes to my shoes, pushing a lock of dark hair back behind my ear. “Oh, right. Of course. The music was, er, loud,” I managed. “Sure, I’ll…”

He pulled away, putting a painful amount of distance between us, before gesturing to his younger brother. Eddard doesn't have nearly the charm of his sibling, but there is a surprising gentleness in his long face. He held out a hand to me, timidly. I hesitated, giving Brandon one last chance to steal me for himself, before placing my hand in his.

I was surprised by how well Eddard Stark can dance. He is long and lean, nothing like the corded muscle I know lurks beneath Brandon’s tunic, and he kept a safe, proper distance as he twirled me lightly to some old folk song. But it was not what I wanted, not what I had fantasized about for all the hours of this dull tournament.

I stole a glance at Brandon, who was standing off to the side with his sister Lyanna. Her attention was focused elsewhere, the crown of blue roses still sitting upon her head. He didn't look at me. He never would.

“To be honest, parties like this aren't really the type of thing I enjoy, Lady Dayne,” Eddard said, shaking me from my reverie. “Do they host celebrations like this often at Starfall?”

His nervous attempt at small talk set my teeth on edge, but I was willing to give him a chance. “Sometimes it feels as though there is always a party going on in Dorne,” I confessed. As the song came to an end, I searched for an exit.

I spotted Princess Elia being hurried off into the ruins of Harrenhal, likely ill, and tried to go after them. One of her other ladies waved me off, leaving me in Ned’s arms.

Another glass of wine ended up in my hand, and I danced with him again, leaving proper behavior behind. With the torches beaming around us and the alcohol filling my head he seemed more and more like Brandon, like the one I wanted so desperately that I ached. His lean frame seemed to bulk up in the light, and maybe it was the wine, but I thought I saw a spark of the wolf-fire burning in those cold, grey eyes of his.

He made a few more fumbling tries at conversation before I couldn't take it anymore. “Come with me,” I whispered, leading him away from the party and into the night.

And now we stand among the empty camps outside of Harrenhal, and he’s watching me in the darkness. The light I thought I saw in his eyes is gone, but it’s too late to go back now. I reach for his hand, pressing his palm to my bodice to allow his fingers to graze the curve of my breast. His hand is shaking, but doesn't move any closer. “You want this, don’t you?” I say.

“Are you...are you sure?” he replies.

I nod. I can hardly see him in the dim light, and the darkness makes him different. In the blackness, he could be anything I want him to be.

I unbuckle the straps of his fur cloak, tossing it in the dirt. That seems to prove to him that I’m serious, and he kisses me, harder than I would expect. Even the Quiet Wolf is a slave to passion, I think. We all are.

We undress each other slowly in the dancing shadows. His hands are calloused and gentle and warm on my skin as he pulls my smallclothes away. I catch the look in his eyes briefly in the pale glow of the moon. He’s watching me reverently, like I’m a queen, the Maiden herself put before him. It might not be the fire I seek, but it’s something, and I pull him to me, freeing him from the last of his garments.

There’s a hard bedroll in the corner of the tent -- we must have stumbled into the lodgings of a lower house, I realize -- and we tumble into it. He probes slowly between my legs with his fingers, and I welcome him, sighing into his ear.

He nudges my thighs apart, settling between them, and then freezes. I hadn't know he’d never touched a woman before, and I suddenly feel low for bringing him here. Even so, it’s too late to turn back now, and I guide him inside me. His breath escapes in a hiss as he savors the feeling of being enveloped by my wet heat.

He moves slowly at first, before driving hard against me. We fit together well, better than I had expected, and my cunt clenches around him, pushing him on. He doesn't say anything, just breathes heavy into my ear, groaning softly as he thrusts.

I rock against him, pleasure driving down to my toes. Brandon, Brandon, Brandon, my beautiful wolf… “Ned,” I murmur in his ear.

He drives a final time, hard and deep, before spilling his seed inside me. I release, too, noiselessly. We stare at each other for a long moment, and then he pulls himself out of me, standing to redress.

He watches me adjust the ties on the front of my gown as he buckles his cloak back on. My corset is too loose, and my smallclothes are on crookedly, but he doesn't seem to recognize how disheveled I am. “Ashara,” he says, using my name for the first time. “You’re so beautiful.”

He ducks out of the tent without another word. I watch him go, feeling the final remains of him sliding against the inside of thighs, knowing that the brother I’d wanted so strongly would not have left me with that same kindness.


End file.
